The debris in the garden next door rather has put me in mind me of childhood summers when we would run around on the still-remaining bombed ruins pretending we were cowboys, and indians, holding on to the belts of each others frocks to use them as reins. Even on the cultivated areas of grass, there were always bricks about which could be used to bang in pegs and stakes made from discarded chestnut fencing for the tents we would make from old curtains. There may have been fires, although that was mostly boy stuff.
So it goes on, the heat and dust. I am collecting bits of brick and stone and lining them up on my railings, my own installation to countdown to the end of August when the building work next door is due to be completed. Meanwhile, I am out of the house most of the time - it's just like being a child again - though nowadays more time is spent in the shade. Those city streets that I used to find so very dark and grim provide some welcome refuge. On the way to visit an aunt in hospital, I walked through Postman's Park, deeply wedged between buildings off St Martins-Le Grand, a cooling sanctuary where you can visit the memorial plaques commemorating acts of bravery, the perfect place to commemorate ordinary people doing extraordinary things, including the too young and brave Mr Onslow.
Outings here have been less dramatic. But I have been thinking of estuaries and rivers, trees and gardens, wonderful aunts, cakes and cafes and local shops, gluts and what to do with them, and getting older with each passing day.
We can come back to those another day because the temperature is rising, the banging has started and it's time to get out of the house.